


cock-a-doodle-fuck-you

by haleofStilesheart



Series: Cas' Cocks [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Apple Pie Life, Cas Owns Chickens, Castiel Acts Like Endverse Castiel, Chicken Herder Castiel, Chickens, Dr. Sexy - Freeform, First Meetings, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Neighbors, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 03:14:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11820078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haleofStilesheart/pseuds/haleofStilesheart
Summary: When Dean moved out of his tiny little garret of an apartment and into a cozy, fully furnished farmhouse on the rural outskirts of town he thought he was in store for a more peaceful, laidback life. And he would have been right if his neighbor's chickens would shut the hell up for once.





	cock-a-doodle-fuck-you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [youcouldsayits-a-mess](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=youcouldsayits-a-mess).



> For the emoji prompt: 
> 
> November 15, 2017 Update: I rewrote the fic to flesh it out some more before the sequel. It's the same basic story with some more details and backstory.

When Dean moved out of his tiny little garret of an apartment and into a cozy farmhouse on the more rural outskirts of town, he thought that he was in store for a more peaceful, more laidback life.

And he would have been right if his neighbor's chickens would shut the hell up for once.

After nearly a decade of living in his too-small, too-expensive apartment, Dean had finally decided that a change of scenery was in order. But he sure as hell wasn't going to move out of Lawrence anytime soon.

It was his home.

Everything about the town was just another facet of home, an extension of the four walls he grew up in. From the people to the traditions to the half priced movie tickets on Thursdays.

From the river where he, Sam, and their dad would go fishing on the weekends to catch pike and catfish and the occasional bass, to the bar where Dean had his first, legal, drink, a shot of Jack Daniel's that went down with a familiar burn.

From the tattoo parlor where he and Sam had gotten matching tattoos on Sam's eighteenth birthday, the spring before he shipped off to Stanford, to their uncle Bobby's salvage yard where he learned all he would ever need to know about cars.

From the local college where Dean had gotten his own degree for automotive technology, busting his ass taking five courses a semester to the Roadhouse where his aunt Ellen had given him a job bartending and helping out in the kitchen.

From the back roads where he liked to drive way over the speed limit when no one else was around, seeing just how fast his baby could go, to the cemetery surrounded by cherry blossoms where his grandparents were buried together.

It was all home. It was all part of what gave his life meaning beyond working himself to death just to get by.

And he wouldn't give it up for all the picturesque beaches and loose love em and leave em women the world had to offer. Not when he had everything he needed, really needed, right there.

Besides, his parents would have thrown a fit. Well, his mom would have anyway.

His dad was more stoic, in the way that macho Midwestern men often had to be. But beneath all his bluster and bravado, John Winchester was little more than a big ol' teddy bear, something that Dean had inherited from his old man.

But Dean knew that if for some crazy, harebrained reason he ever decided that he genuinely wanted to leave Lawrence, his mother would be almost too supportive.

Knowing her as well as he did, she would make him promise that he would take good care of himself and call whenever he got the chance. Hell, she would probably send him off with homemade goodbye pie, probably apple or pecan.

Meanwhile, hypothetically, his dad would just complain about Mary making too big a deal about the whole thing, gruffly reminding her that Dean was a grown man. But he would be fighting back tears of his own like he had the day Dean had started at KU or the morning Sam announced that he had gotten accepted into Stanford.

Speaking of Sam, he would make a huge scene himself, the little drama queen. One straight out of those sappy chick flicks that Dean was known for hating with a passion yet secretly binge watched whenever there was a Hallmark marathon.

Jess, Sam's fiancee, would probably get a little teary-eyed, too. But that was just her way and Dean could definitely forgive that.

Especially since she made ridiculously awesome brownies that she always sent him on the holidays. Sure, it wasn't pie but it was still pretty fucking great.

But as it was, hypothetical moving away scenario aside, Dean decided to move out of his apartment and purchase a quaint house and a nice plot of land out in the more rural part of town.

The timing was as close to perfect as possible.

His business ― the garage he had opened with his dad and a couple of his friends ― was absolutely thriving, providing enough money for him to retire early and spend the rest of his days sipping margaritas on a private beach if he so chose. And he was nearing the ripe old age of thirty six.

It was about time he got a house of his own, settled down and found someone he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. And in all honesty, it was something he had been thinking about for years.

So while some of his family and friends had been a little skeptical of the somewhat sudden decision, Dean had known all along that it was the right choice.

His new home was an old farmhouse on an acre of land, a family home since it was built. It had been warm and inviting from the moment he stepped inside on the open house, fresh country air welcoming him home.

It was much more spacious than his poor excuse of an apartment had been, two stories high with four bedrooms and two and a half bathrooms. The perfect layout for a future family.

It was painted a pristine white, both inside and out. The paint was somewhat yellowed from age, outdated kitchen wallpaper peeling a bit.

But all that meant was that Dean got to put some elbow grease into his new abode. He even got to pick out what colors to paint the walls, which excited him more than he would ever admit.

The dark gray shutters matched the shingles on the roof and the dark slate of the fireplace, a stark contrast to complement the white stain on the big wrap-around porch. Said porch boasted a few rocking chairs and a comfy porch swing.

A big oak tree towered over the house in the front yard, its leaves providing the perfect amount of shade. A tire swing hung from one of the thick branches, a vestige of a rustic childhood.

Living on an acre of land meant his backyard was huge, perfect for a dog and maybe even some kids one day. There were a few trees in the backyard, mostly maples and ashes, the perfect setup for a hammock.

The appliances were practically brand new, stainless steel that had only been used once or twice before, the dark metal standing out against the light marble countertops and white oak kitchen table. He could definitely envision himself making Thanksgiving dinners there for years to come, filling the spacious house with family and friends.

The living room was amazing with two big couches and a few armchairs arranged around the fireplace. A rather sizable TV was mounted on the mantle, the setup boding quite well for future Super Bowl Sundays.

But as much as he liked the living room with its perfect mix of traditional and modern amenities, it was far from his favorite room in the house. No, that honor belonged to the master bedroom.

Almost as big as his old apartment, the master bedroom was on the second story, overlooking the backyard to give him a great view of the sunrise. There were a few dressers, a closet, a couple shelves mounted on the wall, and an en suite master bathroom complete with a Jacuzzi tub that called his name with the intoxicating voice of a siren.

But most importantly, he had a king sized bed with a luxurious memory foam mattress that was so unbelievably comfortable it felt like he was sleeping on a couch.

All in all, his new house was pretty damn awesome. He couldn't wait to live there for the rest of his life.

He quickly fell into a new routine in his new home once he finished getting settled in.

In the mornings he would take a shower in his big glass encased shower and brushed his teeth at the white soapstone vanity. He had taken to cooking huge breakfasts in his huge kitchen, frying Thanksgiving worthy feasts for himself.

Then, he would head off to the garage to open for the day.

In the evenings after work, he usually showered again to wash off all the grease and grime of his day before throwing on an old t-shirt and some boxers. He would cook himself five course dinners and stay up to watch some TV or listen to his records before retiring to his comfy bed.

He adjusted to living in his new home, and new neighborhood, rather well. He had already struck up a few friendly conversations with his neighbors.

Eileen, one of his next door neighbors, owned a small farm where she raised horses for special needs children. Seeing eye ponies, companion horses, stuff like that.

She had explained that her passion stemmed from her own disability, her deafness always an obstacle to certain daily functions. They had discussed her work over coffee after she had stopped by Dean's place to introduce herself.

Eileen was a sweetheart, the kind of woman that Sam would have fallen for in a heartbeat if he hadn't already been married to the love of his life.

Dean's other neighbors were rather nice, too. The sheriff, Jody Mills, lived up the street with her adopted daughter Alex. Her fiance Asa had recently moved in, his two kids from a previous relationship both attending college out of state.

Jody was a total badass, equal parts intimidating and motherly, something Alex had inherited. Asa was laidback, a Canadian transplant who liked to go hunting on the weekends.

Dean couldn't help but pinch himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming, or dead and gone to Heaven, his picturesque neighborhood feeling decidedly dreamlike. Especially when he found a blueberry pie on his doorstep a few days after moving in, the baked housewarming gift accompanied by a note announcing, _Welcome to the neighborhood!_

It had been left unsigned but Dean suspected the woman who lived across the street from him had left it for him. Lisa was a yoga instructor, a hard-working mom raising her son Ben on her own.

She seemed the type to bake a pie for a new neighbor. And she may or may not have flirted with him when he helped her change a tire on her minivan.

Things would have been absolutely perfect if it hadn't been for his neighbor's god damn chickens.

The first few days that Dean had spent in his new home had been devoted to lugging boxes of stuff into the house so he could start the long process of unpacking. Fortunately, Sam and Benny had volunteered to help him, helping him clear out his apartment and ferry everything over in Benny's pickup truck.

While Sam and Benny unpacked some of Dean's kitchen supplies, Dean had gotten to work on unpacking some clothes in his bedroom. He had taken a curious glance out of one of the bedroom windows, finding that he had an unobstructed view into his neighbor's backyard.

His neighbor's house, and therefore his yard, was smaller than Dean's, more of a cottage home than the farmhouse style of Dean's house. It was a deep blue with white trim and a dark brown brick chimney.

It was only one story high which made it look even smaller in comparison, a dwarf among giants in a neighborhood of ranch and farmhouses.

Earlier, when they had pulled up to the house in Benny's pickup, Dean had noticed a car parked in front of his neighbor's house. It was an old Lincoln Confidential, maybe a '75, the gold color somewhat faded.

It stood out like a sore thumb amongst the more modern cars that lined the rest of the street, Dean's own baby the only other exception. As much as Dean loved old cars, he had curled his lip at the sight of the Continental, wondering if his new neighbor was some kind of pimp.

Whoever lived in the tiny little cottage was the only one of Dean's neighbors to not introduce themselves or welcome him to the neighborhood. Maybe his neighbor really was a pimp, thus the lack of social graces.

But all mental images of feathered caps and velvet sights fled Dean's head when he peered into his neighbor's backyard. The first thing he noticed was the large chicken coop surrounded by a bright, flourishing garden and a small grove of apple trees.

A flock of hens, in a few different shades of brown interspersed with a handful of pure white chickens, were milling around the yard. They were pecking and preening, chattering about with soft clucks.

Dean hadn't given it much more thought, shrugging and carrying on with the task at hand. He simply assumed his neighbor either liked having a fresh supply of eggs or just had eccentric pets.

He was too busy running back and forth unloading Benny's pickup and unpacking heavy boxes to think about chickens.

As it turned out, he really should have been worried about the damn chickens because at four o'clock sharp the next morning ― three and a half hours before Dean had to get up to be at the garage in time to open at eight ― he was startled awake by the caw of a rooster.

It was a long, trumpeting caw, too, as the rooster heralded the sun that had yet to rise. It went on long enough that Dean was certain the damn thing's lungs were going to collapse.

He didn't even have time to hope that they did. He was so surprised, wrapped up in a wonderful dream about Dr. Sexy and all of the fun things he could do with the spurs on his cowboy boots, he had actually fallen out of bed.

Muttering nonsensical curses under his breath like a kid's cartoon character, he had stood and stomped over to the window that overlooked his neighbor's backyard. With a satisfyingly loud sound, he had promptly slammed the window shut.

He had plopped back down on his bed and buried his face in a pillow with a petulant groan. Fortunately, he was able to fall back sleep, assuring himself that it was an aberration and the chickens would be on their best behavior the next morning.

They weren't.

The next morning, it happened again, the horrendous sound of a rooster screaming its head off rousing Dean from a deep sleep. He repeated his actions from the previous morning, closing his window with a liberal amount of swearing before climbing back into bed.

The next morning, the cycle was repeated. Just as it was the next morning. And the next.

On the eleventh morning, Dean had to close both of his windows because the damn rooster was so loud. When he could still hear the feathered fiend through the thick panes of glass, he clutched his pillow over his ears and let out a frustrated groan.

How the stupid thing didn't pass out from a lack of oxygen he would never know.

On the twelfth morning, Dean wrenched open his bedroom window to scream right back at the rooster that had been ruining his peaceful life. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he recognized that that yelling at a chicken wasn't the sanest thing he could do but he didn't care.

Before he could utter one single curse, could rant and rave and wax poetic about how much he hated the damn rooster, someone rushed out of his neighbor's house. It was a barefoot man in a baggy t-shirt and loose sweatpants.

Dean had narrowed his eyes as the man scooped up the offending rooster, a fluffy white one that immediately quieted once he was cradled in the man's arms. He strained to hear what his neighbor was cooing to the rooster, only picking up a snippet of soft murmurs in a gravelly voice, "Shh... Shh... We have neighbors, now... You cannot continue on like this..."

The mystery man, who had dark hair that was ridiculously disheveled, Dean noted, gently rocked the chicken, swaying side to side like he was trying to soothe a crying baby. It was oddly endearing how much the guy, his mysterious neighbor, clearly cared about his chickens even if they were little assholes that crowed hours before dawn.

Dean wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry when he heard the man start singing as he continued rocking the rooster. 'Believe It Or Not' had never sounded so serious, less light-hearted in the man's deep voice, but it still brought Dean back to afternoons as a kid spent watching the Greatest American Hero.

Eventually, after finishing the song, Dean's neighbor set the chicken back down in the area enclosed by chicken wire, stroking his hand over the chicken's head and down its neck. With a mumbled goodbye and what sounded like a muffled yawn, he turned and meandered back into his house, his face obscured by the hand he dragged over it.

Shaking himself, Dean had returned to his bed, satisfied that the rooster wouldn't be making any more noise for at least a few hours. He fell back asleep thinking about a deep, raspy voice and burying his hands in disheveled black hair.

Unfortunately, the rooster did not listen to his owner's stern reprimand seeing as how the next morning the damn rooster woke Dean up again.

That time, Dean couldn't fall back asleep, even when he tried using the earplugs he had picked up the day before. Thus, a few new steps were added to Dean's morning routine: waking up at four a.m. and chugging a full pot of coffee to make sure he didn't fall asleep while working on an engine.

Things finally came to a head on Dean's first day off in _months._

He had plans to just laze around all day and do absolutely nothing else beyond eating, drinking a few beers, and catching up on the latest season of Dr. Sexy. Then, later, he had a date with that huge bathtub in his master bathroom and a pint of Ben and Jerry's.

Dr. Sexy was already queued up on Netflix and his favorite bathrobe was calling his name from where it was hung on the back of his bedroom door. He had one of those fancy frou-frou bath bombs his buddy Charlie had gotten him a while back that he was pretty eager to try and his freezer was stocked with three different Ben and Jerry's flavors.

He figured he could text Sam or Charlie to see what they were up to, maybe call his mom just to say hi, since he had been slacking in the 'keeping in touch' department lately. Buying a house, running a business, and dealing with temporally challenged roosters took a lot out of a guy.

Speaking of the little feathery hellspawn, Dean's hopes for a stress free day of rest, relaxation, and maybe a nice long jerk off session were all shot to hell when he was rudely awakened at four o'clock on the dot by the shrill cry of a rooster.

Trying to maintain his optimism, Dean had slammed both of his bedroom windows shut, cursing himself for reopening them the night before. Cool night air wasn't worth it.

After climbing back into bed, Dean burrowed under his covers and buried his head under his pillow. He held the pillow over his ears, praying it would block out the sound.

But it was no use. His neighbor's rooster proceeded to screech for nearly half an hour straight with only brief periods of quiet that Dean assumed the rooster used to catch its breath before screaming again.

Eventually, Dean had enough of the constant carrying on and decided to do something about it once and for all. He rolled out of bed and stomped downstairs and right out the back door, completely ignoring the fact that he was only wearing an old Metallica t-shirt and a pair of boxer briefs.

He marched straight over to the tall wooden fence that separated his backyard from his neighbor's but did nothing to mute the crowing of the rooster. Peering over the top of the fence at the fluffy white rooster that was perched on top of the chicken coop with its head thrown back, Dean growled, "Shut the hell up, damn it!"

Of course, at that exact moment, his neighbor rushed out of his own back door.

He paused for a moment on his back porch when he noticed Dean looking over the fence. It gave Dean a chance to realize how unfairly hot his new neighbor was.

His narrowed eyes were an angelic blue, making Dean think of the cloudless morning skies he liked to watch through his bedroom window. His lips, pink and slightly chapped, were parted as he tilted his head to the side like a confused puppy.

His raven black hair was beyond disheveled, the worst case of bedhead that Dean had ever seen and he had seen Sam first thing in the morning with his mane of hair all tousled. Stubble darkened his cheeks and jaw, longer than five o'clock shadow as though he had not shaved in a few weeks.

He was wearing an oversized light chambray shirt and a pair of dark gray sweatpants but Dean could still see the definition in his arms and chest, the wiry muscle of his legs. It wasn't the kind that came with lifting weights in a gym, instead the kind that came from hours of hard work outside, from chopping firewood or building a chicken coop.

He was downright gorgeous.

And he was hurrying over to open the gate to the fenced in area, scolding, "Cyrano!"

The sound of his voice, rough from sleep, seemed to rouse the other chickens as the moment he swung open the gate, a flock of chickens swarmed around his ankles. They pecked impatiently at his bare toes with indignant little clucks, flapping and ruffling their wings a bit.

"I'll feed you in a minute," he hissed at them, bending over to gently push the gaggle of hens out of his way with a light touch on their backsides. The hens scattered like roaches, squawking and hopping around. Somewhere a dog barked.

Straightening up as the other chickens went on their way, he jogged over to the coop, reaching up to pluck the fluffy white rooster off the roof. He sighed heavily as the rooster immediately quieted and settled in his arms.

"Cyrano..." He mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut. Pressing his face into the downy looking feathers of the rooster's side, he whined, "We talked about this."

After stroking his hand down the rooster's back a few times, running his thumb over the back of its neck, he seemed to realize that Dean was still there. Raising his head, he looked back up at Dean, his eyes almost comically wide as he apologized, "I'm so sorry. I've tried getting him to stop crowing so early but he's rather stubborn."

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, taking a moment to pinch the bridge of his nose. He felt like a complete asshole.

For god's sake, he had just yelled at his neighbor's rooster right in front of him. There was no coming back from that.

Especially since this was the guy that Dean would live next to for years, would have to see at the mailbox in the morning or over the top of their shared backyard fence in the summer. He couldn't afford to piss him off.

The fact that his neighbor was ridiculously good looking may or may not have made him feel even worse.

"Yeah, well, I might've overreacted a little," Dean admitted sheepishly, resting his forearm on the top of the fence. Praying he could salvage the situation, he flashed what he hoped was a charming grin and explained, "Just a little tired, y'know?―" the grin fell off his face as he pointed at the entrance of the chicken coop "―What the hell is that?!"

Emerging from the chicken coop was a huge mass of white, an ominously deep clucking accompanying it. After another minute of abject horror, Dean saw that the huge feathery creature was actually a chicken, the great big beast flapping its wings a few times as it paced around outside the coop.

It was twice as big as the other chickens, towering over them. It was rather intimidating with its broad chest and livid red wattle and comb. Its beak was a bright yellow.

It had silver and gray feathers that trailed down its neck where they darkened to a pitch black. Black tail feathers stood in stark contrast to the chicken's pristine white feathers.

It had downy feathers down the length of its legs which ended in four toes complete with sharp talons. Dean belatedly realized that the thunderous clucking was coming from the monster sized chicken.

Seemingly unfazed by the leviathan of a chicken prowling around his yard, Dean's neighbor just said, "Oh, that's Balthazar."

 _"Balthazar,"_ Dean repeated incredulously, blinking a few times. Gesturing at the huge chicken, he managed to squeak, "You named your chicken _Balthazar._ Like the wise man?"

"No, of course not," his neighbor scoffed, shaking his head and scrunching up his face like it was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. Dean was sighing when his neighbor tacked on the bombshell, "I named him after my brother."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Dean blurted, holding up his hand. Narrowing his eyes at his neighbor, he demanded, "You have a brother named Balthazar?"

"Yes," the other man replied, absentmindedly petting the chicken still in his arms. "It's a long story."

Dean could believe that, nodding to himself. He was about to turn and hurry back into his house with his tail between his legs when he noticed the way his neighbor was biting his lip, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"If you're not busy, I could tell you about it," he offered, smiling shyly. With a shrug, he reasoned, "I think I owe you a beer or two for how much Cyrano has been tormenting you."

"Sure," Dean agreed, figuring a drink with his neighbor couldn't be too had. "Just let me put some pants on."

He laughed under his breath immediately after he said it, shaking his head at the pure craziness that was his life. He paused as he started to turn towards his house, looking over his shoulder at his neighbor. "Uh, I never got your name."

A wide smile graced the dark haired man's lips as he belatedly introduced himself, "Castiel."

"Alright then, Cas, I'll be there in a sec," Dean promised, throwing in a wink for the hell of it. Maybe he would get to take that nice, relaxing bath later, ideally with his hot neighbor.

He just hoped the chickens would stay quiet for once.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr [here](http://hale-of-stiles-heart.tumblr.com/)  
> Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!


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